


Solidarity

by Archadian_Skies



Category: Kuroshitsuji : The Most Beautiful DEATH in the World - Iwasaki/Mori/Mari, Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Bonding, Female Pronouns for Grell Sutcliff, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, post Most Beautiful Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-03 22:06:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17292302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archadian_Skies/pseuds/Archadian_Skies
Summary: A year after the loss of Eric and Alan, William visits their graves to uphold a promise he made. He doesn't expect to find Grell there, nor Ronald, and certainly not the Undertaker. He's never had to grieve before, but William discovers it's a little easier with the help of friends.





	Solidarity

**Author's Note:**

> Old fic imported from tumblr

It has been a year; it has been a lifetime.

The passage of years were hardly notable for him and his kind, and yet the year that had passed recently felt as though it belonged to a different life altogether.

He supposed that was due to him having lost two of his field agents; the closest feeling akin to ‘loss’ had been the briefest glimpses into Thomas Wallis’ life when his Record pierced him, and William instantly decided he would rather never feel such a thing ever again.

Yet there he was, with the dying light of day brushing the tops of tombstones as he toiled the rain sprinkled earth and tended the heather blossoming over the graves.

“Get away from there you thief!” A shriek and a blur of red was all he saw before he was knocked to the ground by a solid thwack to the head. “Don’t you dare touch- William?”

Grell froze, hands hovering by William’s head after removing the cloth tied protectively around the lower half of his face.

“Sutcliff.  _Off._ ” He growled, shoving the redhead away roughly.

“Why are you dressed like a grave robber?” She stood and offered him her hand, which he took without a thought, before brushing her clothing free of dirt.

“I am  _not_. I am dressed as a gardener.” William bristled, fetching the fallen cloth and retying it around his nose and mouth.

“I thought you were a grave robber.”

“Those graves are empty.”

“I know that.” She snapped, and he regretted the words as soon as he’d said them; there had been no bodies to bury, not when Reaper flesh collapsed to ash when the soul vacated the body. “Mortals mightn’t know that, though.”

A pause as they assessed the situation, and each other. She was bloodsplattered (not out of the ordinary), dressed in a red kilt (out of the ordinary), with her hair in multiple braids and twists (new, but not unlike her usual self).

“Why are you dressed like that?”

“I resolved to do this every year in memory of my dear protégé. Scottish plaid and Celtic warbraids.” Grell gestured at herself. “And you’ll find reports for the destruction of two S Class demons on your desk tomorrow. And you? My grave robber cum gardener?”

“I promised Alan I would care for the heathers.” He brushed his gloved fingers over the delicate little blossoms, catching the softened gaze Grell gave him out of the corner of his eye.

“Boss? Cap’n?” A new voice piped up behind them. “Boss you aren’t plannin’ on diggin’ them up are you? S’nothin’ in those.”

“I know.” William snapped in turn, before sighing in irritation. “Knox. Explain.”

Ronald held up a bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses. “Eric and I used to spend our overtime pay on this whenever work got too stressful.” The younger Reaper nudged between them, pausing to peck his senior on the cheek and salute at William cheekily. “Thought I’d pass by and share a shot with him. For memory’s sake, y’know?”

“A picnic!”

Grell screeched, turning and swinging her Scythe at the sudden shrill voice behind her. The figure ducked with inhuman speed, cackling loudly before simmering into a wheezing giggle.

“A picnic at dusk! Oh what a marvellous idea!” The Undertaker smiled lazily, and William executed a respectful bow in his direction. “What are you children doing, hm? We cannot have a picnic without a blanket and some hot tea and sandwiches. I’ve brought the nibblies, see?”

He uncovered a plate, and the sweet scent of freshly baked gingerbread unfurled into the air. “Alan used to sit and have a cup of tea and nibble on these when I was working on his coffin. I gave Eric the recipe after Alan kept coming home smelling of gingerbread.”

 “I can bring sandwiches?” Ronald offered with a hopeful grin. “I took a platter home from the Admin luncheon today.”

“I can bring tea, and I think I have some tarts leftover.” Grell pondered aloud, before nudging William teasingly. “And I know you’ve some ghastly blankets we could use.”

“Well then it’s settled!” The Undertaker cried gleefully, clapping his hands in delight before making shooing motions at them. “I’ve another batch in the oven that’ll be ready by the time everyone returns.”

* * *

 

It’s hours later, with the sky reflected in tepid cups of tea, and platters of disappearing gingerbread and half-eaten sandwiches and a rapidly depleting bottle of whiskey that William realized what was happening:

They were grieving.

William acknowledged with a pinch of pain in his chest that they had all found different ways to cope with the absence of their colleagues in their lives. He supposed he would just have to grow accustomed to grief and absence and guilt despite his abhorrence for such emotions since sharing Thomas’ memories. He supposed he owed them that much.  

Grell was wrapped in another ‘ghastly blanket’ for warmth, leaning against him whilst she plucked another gingerbread biscuit from the plate. Ronald was stretched out on his back, hands pillowed behind his head. The Undertaker was across from them, crosslegged and refilling their cups with hot tea.

They talked and they didn’t; they hurt and they healed.

They theorized where Reapers went after they died, if they went anywhere at all. It didn’t matter, Ronald shrugged and seemed less of a boy and more of man, because they died together.

They parted just shy of midnight, with the promise of an annual picnic beside the graves amongst the blooms and beneath the stars.

* * *

 

The next morning when Grell poked her head into his office, he noticed the twisted heather woven into her plaited crown of red. When she looped a sprig of  _Erica_ blossoms through the buttonhole in his lapel, he made no protest.

When Ronald passed by and gave his usual cheerful salute, William noticed the sprig of blossoms through the buttonhole in his lapel too. He nodded in solidarity.

William resolved to permit such a deviance from uniform protocol just once every year. It was, so unlike many others, a resolution easily kept.


End file.
